


Learning To Love

by ister



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Trauma, M/M, Minor Character Death, Napoleon doesn't know how to turn people down, Serious Injuries, someone help him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 11:56:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7756957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ister/pseuds/ister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Napoleon broke someone's heart and one time his heart was broken</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning To Love

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the characters, only the plot bunnies for this little fic. It's going to be an angsty ride. Enjoy nonetheless :)

**\- 1 -**

Napoleon is seven when he hears those three words for the first time. He isn't used to affection, with his parents being away most of the time, too troubled with their high-society life.

His playmate, a silly little girl named Alice, looks at him, her eyes filled with anticipation. And Napoleon thinks about love, about marriage and about a lot of other things. He likes her, she is not like a sister to him, but she makes him laugh and fills his afternoons with delightful games, always looking for trouble.

So he responds with the only thing coming to his mind, because he is sure no-one has loved him before.

"Thank you," he tells her, face and tone of his voice serious.

He doesn't understand why she gets upset and runs home, crying.

**\- 2 -**

"Andrea, we're gonna be late," he yells over his shoulder and ruffles his locks.

He is not a scrawny little kid anymore and considers himself an adult, even if his sister tells him that he is being ridiculous. Andrea, his significant other - he isn't sure about the term, it sounds far too important - tells him different.

He doesn't listen to either one of them. "Andrea, get a move on, Marie will murder me if we get there late. She's been looking forward to see the movie since forever."

"Coming," Andrea calls, their voice sounding a little bit off.

"Everything alright?" he asks, not really concerned because they didn't fight about stupid things and did their homework.

He turns around to look into their hazel eyes. Andrea looks downright upset, which makes him frown. Did he do some wrong after all?

"I love you," they mumble.

His brains short-circuits. His stomach rumbles. He decides to listen to his urges.

"Come on, if we hurry, Marie will pay for the popcorn." He checks his reflection one last time - he needs to, his looks are his only armour, his only defense against a world too cruel for a little boy with big dreams.

For a moment, he sneers. What a pathetic creature he is. Weak, shallow, not worth anyone's attention.

"I love you," Andrea tells him, louder, their voice firmer.

He lets out an exhausted sigh. Not again. Their eyes tell him everything he needs to know: they see something in him that he isn't.

"I heard you the first time," he responds, watching the light of hope in Andrea's eyes go out, "Will you please hurry up now? I don't want to keep her waiting, she loves the whole cast."

In the end, it doesn't matter how fast he walks, he walks alone.

**\- 3 -**

His hands tremble and he thinks about the immediate consequences. Forging his papers was one of the most stupid things he has ever done. He shakes his head. It _is_ the most stupid thing he has ever done.

Marie watches him pack his bag, tears welling up in her eyes. It upsets him very much. More, than anything else would.

She is his elder sister. She is his solace. And she can't keep him safe now.

"Please, Léon. Don't go," she begs, her resolve breaking, so unlike her he has to catch his breath, has to stop what he's doing.

"I have to," he bites out, even if he is not sure anymore.

"There will always be another war, mon trésor, please. You're throwing your life away. Your education, your plans …"

"I would never be able to fulfil my dreams," he stops her.

"They," he spits out, looking at a painting of his parents, "They would interfere."

"Two more years and you're free of them, two more years and we can move out, Léon. Please." She grabs at him.

Napoleon shrugs her off and finishes packing. "It's my only chance to get away," he whispers.

Marie jumps to her feet and blocks the door. "It's not. I know, you-"

"Marie, je t'en prie." He tries to get past her.

For a few moments he thinks she's not going to let him go. Then, she moves, her resolve breaking, ripping her heart in two. He can sense it.

"Je t'aime," she whispers, a broken sob escaping his lips while she does so.

"I am still leaving." He pulls her into a tight hug and lets a few tears fall, before regaining his composure.

Blue eyes filled with determination meet two pools of emotion, then he is on his way. To victory, to death, to his future, to his end. It doesn't matter, he is free of his parents.

**\- 4 -**

A cacophony of broken screams, the sounds of war, the unmistakable smell of burnt flesh, gunpowder, sweat. A sensory overload to everyone else, but he doesn't notice. He's focusing on one single human being, raged breaths escaping the punctured lungs, lying almost limply in his arms.

"Jimmy, I am so sorry," he says, because it's the only thing he can think of.

Bright green eyes, green like the rainforest, with specks of brown, different than his own heterochromia, but so much alike at the same time, gaze up at him. "You don't have to be," he rasps, lifts his hand and wipes grime from his nose.

His efforts are in vain, because his fingers are bloody and he smears Napoleon's face with it. "Silly me," he laughs, voice stuttering.

Jimmy coughs up blood and lets out a pained whine. "Leo, babe." He has to catch his breath, Napoleon's heart beating almost painfully at the spoken sentimental, because Jimmy only uses it post-coital usually. "I-I have to tell you something," he starts to speak again.

"Please," Napoleon jokes, lightly, even if it's not the right situation - but there won't be a right situation ever again, not with Jimmy - a teasing smile stretching his features, "Don't tell me you love me."

Jimmy sobers up and looks away, his face redding. Napoleon's stomach lurches. "Chéri," he starts, carefully so, using his own term of endearment.

"Don't." Jimmy shakes his head and he is at a loss. He is only 19, he doesn't know what he is supposed to do. People his age get crushes, go on dates, go to university, they don't watch people die in their arms; people they slept with for two years, people they celebrated their anniversary with - stealing kisses while dancing in the rain, letting their fellow comrades make kissy faces, pulling them into hugs, getting drunk - people, they care about.

A violent shiver runs through Jimmy. "Rider, don't," Napoleon forces out, clutching him a little bit tighter, running his free hand through the dirty blond locks.

"My cover name for a last sentiment? Cruel, Solo," Jimmy quips, his eyes betraying his light mood.

"Chéri, you're-" - "Not going to die? I can hardly talk, babe." Jimmy closes his eyes.

"I love you," he whispers, "Even, if my feelings are unrequited. I love you. You would've been the joy of my life. My-" He coughs.

Napoleon presses their foreheads together and allows himself to cry. "My," Jimmy breathes, "You _do_ care."

"Don't be ridiculous! Of course I do, you stupid idiot," Napoleon sobs, more tears falling.

"Babe, I can't feel my legs." Jimmy's face falls even more. "Leo." He claws at Napoleon, takes his hand. "Please, I don't want to die alone."

"You're not going to die alone," he hears himself say, even if he wants to tell Jimmy that he isn't going to die at all, "You're dying in the arms of someone you love."

His significant other grins, his face stretching into a grimace of pain. "Kiss me," he pleads, "One last time."

And Napoleon does. Because after all, he always enjoyed Jimmy's teasing nips, the way he seemed to fit against him, his tongue coaxing his lips open, and his half-smile pressed against his own mouth.

He tries to savour everything: the blood in his mouth, the tears in his eyes, Jimmy's last painful breaths in his ears, his locks - soft, despite the dirt in it - against his cheeks. He doesn't want to let go. He can't.

"I love you too," he whispers, a broken statement, sobbed against Jimmy's lifeless form. He lets out a sound of anguish and hugs him closer.

"Fucking hell," someone shouts - Napoleon thinks, it's Phaser - "Rider's down, send a medic!"

Napoleon only shakes his head and kisses Jimmy on his lips for one last time, chaste, like their first kiss had been - under a mistletoe Jazz had hung up in their dorms.

They are too late, just like he has been with his confession. Jimmy is gone.

**\- 5 -**

The honeypot is taking too long for his liking and Napoleon feels himself getting restless. Despite his mission being to charm the widow of an important business man into his bed, hence being easy, he cannot bring himself to finish it. He murmurs a quick apology and gets up.

The smell of smoke and alcohol follow him outside and he allows himself to breathe. The air is crisp and carries the first distinct scent of snow. A few stories under him people are bustling about, some talking, others laughing, stressed out and relieved at the same time because it's Christmas.

Napoleon always liked the season, Marie and him eating far too much Vanillekipferl, their Austrian nanny, a grumpy old professor, lecturing them - although he made sure that the Christkind left presents in their rooms - and telling them stories from his childhood; kissing the taste of eggnog from Jimmy's lips, his drunk giggles the most adorable sound he had ever heard.

It had changed with his death, there was no light to be found in a time where everyone spend their hours with their loved ones and he has no-one left: Marie is overseas, doing business for their enterprise and his nanny is back in Austria.

He lets out a deep sigh and toys with Jimmy's dog tags. After they had pried his dead body from his trembling hands, he had left, the last reminder of his first love clutched against his heart.

Before he can get lost in his own thoughts, the door clicks and he senses a second presence approaching him. It is his partner, Agent Walters, tough cookie and skilled martial artist.

"Everything alright?" they ask and he wants to laugh.

Instead, he puts on one of his many masks, the con man, the one his colleagues at the CIA hate, for it shows he will never be a simple agent. "It would be, if I could get my hands on pretty things," he quips, an arrogant smirk crossing his features.

"Oh." Agent Walters turns to look over the city.

He musters them for a moment. "You should leave, people might get the wrong idea," he proposes.

"That being?" Walters wants to know.

"The two of us involved." Since his fellow colleague fails to understand the bigger picture he turns and walks in again. He has a mission to finish.

Afterwards, he provides Sanders with the necessary information and heads out, thoughts wandering to Marie and his nanny. He doesn't notice the presence for nearly two blocks, but when he does, he whips around, gun trained at Walters.

"Damn it, are you out of your mind?" he curses.

"I am sorry." Walters lets their lifted arms drop to their sides.

Napoleon sighs. "What do you want?" he asks, because he hates surprises.

"I wanted to ask you if you would like to spend Christmas with my family." Walters shuffles around nervously and suddenly, he gets it.

Their recent shyness, the little gifts, the small smiles, everything makes sense now. He knows better, but he can't bring himself to stop, so he asks: "And why should I spend Christmas at your place?"

"Because no-one should be alone at Christmas, and it's-it's the season of love," Walters responds, quietly so.

"Your point being?" he wants to know, his tone polite, but not warm, never warm.

Walters lets out a nervous laugh. "I am in love with you, Solo," they say, "I've been for a while now. Since Prague, to be specific."

"A whole year?" His head starts to hurt.

"Yes, Solo, I-I love you." Walters wrings their hands and he can't bring himself to say something witty.

"Oh."

It's disappointing, he'll have to request a new partner. Walters crumbles before him. "That's all you have to say?" they demand to know.

"What else am I supposed to say?" Napoleon runs his fingers through his hair. "It's late, if you'll excuse me, I have an important phone call to make."

He hurries home, emotions in a turmoil.

His flat is silent and he appreciates the calmness. With a small sigh, he readies himself and calls.

"Borchert am Apparat." - "Hallo Pepi, ich bin's. Hab ich dich aufgeweckt? Stör ich?" - "Geh, mei, Bua. Du doch ned. Wie geht's dir denn? Magst ma erzählen, wie des Jahr woa?"

He sighs and closes his eyes, tells his nanny everything, lets his masks slip. Tomorrow, he will think about fraternisation and transfers, today he feels and tries to cheer up.

**\+ 1 +**

Napoleon is furious. He cannot control his breathing and his hands have started to shake. He has a vague feeling that this is what Illya feels when he gets one of his episodes.

"Do you love being this reckless?" he hisses and hoists the stupid Russian onto the couch.

He is bleeding from at least three different knife cuts and sweating in the blistering late summer heat. "Yes," the little shit responds, which makes Napoleon want to shake some sense into him.

"You had no reason to endanger yourself," he forces out through gritted teeth and inspects the big bruise blooming under his right eye.

Gaby, being the not-so-silent presence in the back, snickers. "He hit you bad," she chides.

"How did this happen anyway?" Napoleon demands to know while patching Illya up.

"Got distracted," Illya confesses and clutches the armrest a little bit tighter.

"By what?" Napoleon stops and looks at him.

"Not what, who," Illya corrects, face red.

"Whom," Gaby chimes in.

"Whatever." Illya looks at his fingers

Napoleon just smirks and continues his work.

Afterwards, they sit on the couch, all three of them tangled into one another, not caring about the heat and the sweat. Gaby messages Napoleon's tense spots and he feels himself relax into her.

"Why do you care?" Illya asks, suddenly, interrupting their moment.

"What do you mean?" Napoleon sits up, much to Gaby's chagrin.

"On missions, you do not let me finish them if I get injured. You do not want me to finish it. It is strange. I am not weak." Illya's brows are furrowed and he looks downright cute.

"The mission doesn't require you getting hurt," he states, matter of factly.

"And if I get injured you always fuss over me. Too much fussing. Like a motherhen," Illya continues.

"Yeah, well-" - "And you always get angry with me when I'm hurt. I can look out for myself, I am a good spy." - "Illya, this is not about you being weak." - "Then why the fuss? I do not need it."

"Because I love you." The sentence bursts out of him, startling his partners.

Gaby looks triumphant, as if being glad he admitted it finally and Illya … Illya looks distraught, icy blue eyes fixed on him, his hands shaking.

"You shouldn't," he breathes.

Napoleon's heart sinks. He knows now, knows what it feels like to be rejected. And he feels sorry for everyone he ever treated wrong when it came to love.

He gasps a few times, but the ugly feeling in his gut won't go away. There is an ice block right where his heart should be and he gets up.

Gaby, for once, is rendered speechless and Illya turns his face. Napoleon knows it's because he doesn't want to show his emotions - the possible pity, rage or even hate.

It serves him right, he figures, after breaking all those hearts. Someone like him is supposed to live alone, so he grabs his things, a transfer in the back of his mind once again and turns to the door.

Out of the corner of his eye he witnesses Gaby slapping Illya. "Bist du völlig meschugge, du blödes Arschloch?!"

He ignores her and heads out. Damn, he is going to miss her. With every willpower he has left he tries to will Illya out of his mind. It works spectaculary bad.

**\+ 2 +**

There is one place in Venice that fits his mood and he stands on the Ponte della Paglia, training his eyes on it - the Ponte dei Sospiri, the Bridge of Sighs. It's very late in the night and his restlessness had carried him far into the city, but now he has found his way back somehow. Right where their mission had started.

He sighs. The faint light coming from the lanterns on the Ponte della Paglia doesn't help to warm his heart. There is nothing that will help him out of his misery. He yanks Jimmy's dog tags from his neck and is about to throw them into the water, because love isn't for people like him, when suddenly, a large hand clasps his and a strong arm wraps around his waist. "No, Cowboy. Do not do something you will regret."

Napoleon sighs, leaning against Illya for a moment, before regaining his composure. He tries to scramble away, but it's useless: Illya strengthens his hold and presses the hand which holds Jimmy's dog tags firmer against Napoleon's chest.

"I was stupid, please, do not fight. Let me explain." - "Let go of me." Napoleon considers throwing Illya over his shoulder and into the canal, but before he can do so, he is lifted up.

"Your stitches, you asshole," he shouts and Illya starts laughing.

He is not able to support Napoleon's weight anymore and they both stumble, arms flailing, to regain their balance. "You are something else, Cowboy."

Napoleon's mouth twitches. He tries to fight the smile, but fails. Damn Peril and his everything.

Illya steps forward once again and envelops him into a tight hug. "I do not want to lose you," he confesses and presses a light kiss on Napoleon's furrowed brows.

His heart skips a beat - or two, he can't really tell - and he snuggles closer. "I am sorry, Cowboy. I did not know what to do and reacted poorly, it won't happen again."

Napoleon looks up. "I feared for your life. In our profession it is not good to get attached. You know how it is," Illya continues to explain.

"Yes, I know," Napoleon tells him, wants to say something else, wants to let his masks protect him, but he can't, because Illya places a finger on his lips.

"I know too. Gaby and you are so important to me and I let my instinct to protect the both of you get the better of me." He presses his lips on his brows again, leaves a trail of kisses down his cheek and pecks him on his nose.

"I try to not let it happen again. We should to discuss things before one of us is being stupid and does somthing impulsive." - "Teller scolded you, didn't she?" - "Yes, Chop Shop Girl had her fair say in this. And she is right."

Napoleon draws his brows up. It must've taken a great deal for Illya to admit listening to Gaby's advice - because Peril is too stubborn for his own good - and he feels his chest swell with pride.

"Can we please try again? Now that my impulse is under control?" Illya asks, sounding shy all of a sudden.

Napoleon shrugs. "And how?"

"Say the words again." Illya bites his lip.

He wants to protest, wants to shove him away, but in the end, he draws him closer, looks up and states, voice firm: "I love you."

Illya's face splits up into a brilliant smile, it's blinding, Napoleon has never seen it on him and decides that it suits him. "And I love you," comes the fond reply and he can't react, because Illya's lips are on his and they are kissing, finally.

After that, there is not much talking - but a lot of cursing: waking up Gaby proves to be a very bad idea, worrying her even more and it earns him a slap. But for once, he doesn't care, he is happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, here we are.  
> I know, the ending is very sappy, but I feel like it was needed after the whole angst.
> 
> Austrians have a sweet tooth, especially in the Christmas season. A lot of families bake cookies and other sweet things together. It's like a bonding ritual somehow. And I love to imagine little Napoleon and little Marie baking [Vanillekipferl](http://allrecipes.com/recipe/10730/vanille-kipferl-ii/) with their nanny.
> 
> Another thing that comes with Christmas is the Christkind. In Austria, Christmas is celebrated on Christmas Eve and the Christkind leaves presents under the tree. [Here](http://www.nytimes.com/2002/12/12/world/vienna-journal-for-austrians-ho-ho-ho-is-no-laughing-matter.html) is an article about it.
> 
> Pepi is a nickname for someone called Josef. Today, it's hardly used anymore.
> 
> Scream with me about these idiots on [Tumblr](http://www.hammer-armie.tumblr.com).
> 
> **Translations**
> 
> _mon trésor_ \- my treasure  
>  _Je t'en prie._ \- I beg you.  
>  _chéri_ \- darling  
>  _Borchert am Apparat._ \- Borchert on the phone.  
>  _Hallo Pepi, ich bin's. Hab ich dich aufgeweckt? Stör ich?_ \- Hello Pepi, it's me. Did I wake you up? Am I disturbing you?  
>  _Geh mei, Bua. Du doch ned._ \- No, son. Of course not.  
>  _Wie geht's dir denn? Magst ma erzählen, wie des Jahr woa?_ \- How are you? Do you want to tell me how your year has been (Yep, that's an Austrian dialect. "Bua" means boy, but the way I used it, it can be translated as "son".)  
>  _Bist du völlig meschugge, du blödes Arschloch?!_ \- Have you lost your mind completely, you stupid asshole?!  
> 


End file.
